


Daughter of David

by debit



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debit/pseuds/debit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on Caleb's back story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daughter of David

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written April 2003.

He calls her Tamar, but she's sure that's not her name. She calls him Father, never Daddy. She forgot, once, after he'd bought her a pretty new dress and some hard candy. Thank you Daddy, because he's taught her to be polite, and he'd given her a hard look and an even harder slap right in front of the little store. She'd swallowed her candy, felt it lodge in her throat like a plum pit, and he'd said, "I ain't your daddy."

She watches other children, sees them come in with their mothers and fathers, holding hands, sitting on laps, sometimes getting a too hard hug when his words make the crowd moan and shake like someone with the fever. Sometimes she wonders what it's like to be part of a family, and barely recalls the smell of lavender and a cool, soft hand rubbing her back, a woman's voice murmuring a lullaby, but it's like a baby's dream, all fuzzy and pink. She asked him once if she had a mommy, and he smiled and said her Mommy was gone, gone because she was too dirty.

So she takes care to stay clean as best she can. Some days they drive for so long that she gets covered in dust and her bones ache from rattling around in the back of the truck. And she is tired when they stop, so tired that it's all she can do to not fall asleep right there with only his satchel as a pillow. But she knows better, and he always makes sure there's a bathroom.

And this is her first real memory of him; sitting a tub, her blonde hair dark and wet and tacky, the water warm and pink, and his voice saying, "Get yourself cleaned up now." The first bath, the first dress, the first time he said her name.

They never stay in any place for very long, and by now she knows the routine by heart. There are flyers to be put up, signs to be made for the stores and diners, people to smile at shyly when he went knocking on doors. When she was little the women used to coo at her and pet her and offer her cookies or candy. He always let her eat the treats, but made her wash up after, said she stunk of sin where they'd touched her.

She knows other children go to school, watches them go by their truck, laughing, chattering, lunchboxes swinging. Sometimes they wave at her, sometimes they point and make faces. Most times they ignore her in favor of playing hopscotch on a hastily scratched out court, or some complex game of tag where they all wheel and turn like a flock of flightless birds and everyone seems to be It. Part of her wishes he would stop so she could join them, but she has also been taught to be good. Being good means sitting still, eyes down, hands clasped, ankles together.

This is how she sits in their motel rooms, and how she sits on stage when he talks. "This child," he says, and she peeks up to see the audience staring at her until his voice calls them back. "This child is a child of sin. Doesn't matter how innocent she was when she was born. From the moment she entered this world, she was covered in its sin as surely as she was with her mother's blood." And she closes her eyes when he says this, the light of the sun only a dim pinky glow through her eyelids and his voice, for all that he never raises it, is heavy as a fall of stones. She can feel the audience shudder under his words and knows that when he sends her out with the collection plate, she will bring it back full to the brim.

He gives her money to buy a new dress when the old one becomes too small. When she was younger, she always bought the same one, or as close to it as she could get, because she knew he liked it: Plain white cotton, long sleeves, and with a row of buttons marching up her flat chest until they met her throat. Lately she stops to look at other dresses, ones with short sleeves and zippers up the back, finds herself stroking those that are as vibrantly colored as the wine he serves for communion, the nylon so smooth that her ragged nails catch and pull unless she's careful. But she is good, so she buys the plain white cotton and makes sure all the buttons are done up before she leaves her room.

Meals are always made up of takeout from the local diner and silence. Afterward, he'll talk, will speak of the end of days and the forever night that is coming. She's never sure if his words are for her, or because he has so many inside him that he needs to let some free lest he explode. He's never told her bedtime stories, but many is the night she's fallen asleep to the sound of him speaking in the other room and dreamed of a world where people moved like ghosts under a moon that never set.

The moon is full when they stop at the next town, and she stumbles into the bathroom after unloading the truck. The taps are rusty and the water as well, so her bath is a short one and she blames the water when the scratchy white towel comes away pink.

Her nightgown is faded and tight, and she pulls at the neckline, then undoes the top button when it digs into her flesh. He's silent when she enters the room, just sits in his chair and looks her until she puts a hand to her throat and drops her eyes.

"You ain't clean," he says, so softly that at first the words don't even register. When they do, she starts to apologize, to explain about the rusty water, but he holds up a hand and her words go dry.

"I suppose it's not your fault," he says, as he stands. "If ever there was a bitch goddess, it was mother nature, and she will have her way despite our best efforts."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I can -- Maybe if I run the water longer this time-"

"See, there's where you're wrong. You and the rest of them, thinking you can wash your sins away, never realizing they're so deep inside you no amount of water can touch them. I thought maybe if I raised you up right, maybe you'd be different, but I was wrong."

He walks toward her, hands behind his back, just like when he's preaching and this time he's preaching at her, giving her audience of one the full weight of his attention. "I've seen the boys looking at you. Only a matter of time before you start looking back. And then, well. Like I said, it's your nature to be a whore." He sounds almost regretful, and that's just as astonishing as the sudden blow to her stomach.

Shock locks her knees, then his arm moves up and they buckle, and she can hear a low purring sound of something ripping before she feels it. She looks down and her gown is turning bright red with ropey ribbons of pink spilling out and she can barely make her hands move to catch them, to try to press them back in.

His feet move into her field of vision, his hand settles on her hair. She looks up, sees his smile, bright as the curved blade next to it. "I told you," he says, as he gently pulls her head back and brings the knife down, "you can't fight nature."


End file.
